With Jesus

 

 Regan on the Mountaintop with Jesus

A hush fell over the assembled crowd, a collective breath held in the warm Galilean air. Seated on a grassy knoll, a man named Jesus had begun to speak, his voice carrying with a gentle authority that captivated even the youngest listener. Among them, nestled between her mother and father, was Regan Nelson, a girl whose fiery red hair was a vibrant splash of color against the dusty greens and browns of the mountainside.

Not long ago, that same red hair had been carefully coiffed and adorned with a sparkling crown when she was named Little Miss Pocahontas, a title she held with a seven-year-old's solemn pride for a whole year. She still had the sash, tucked away in a special box at home. But today, listening to this man, the memory of the crown and the applause felt distant, like a story about someone else.

Her daddy, a man with hands calloused from his work on the State Road, a job that often left him weary and caked in the dust of progress, sat with a quiet intensity. Her mother, a nurse practitioner whose days were filled with the urgent needs of the sick and the worried well, had a look of serene focus on her face. It was her mother who had insisted they come, who believed it was important to hear the words of this teacher who spoke of God in a way that felt both new and ancient.

Jesus’ voice, though not loud, reached Regan’s ears as clearly as the birdsong in the olive trees. He spoke of blessings, of who God smiled upon. And then He said the words that snagged in Regan’s young mind:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

Poor in spirit. The words were a puzzle. Regan knew about being poor. Sometimes her daddy would come home, his shoulders slumped, and talk in hushed tones with her mother about bills and whether his winter hours on the road crew would be enough. But poor in spirit? That was different. She pictured a spirit as a wisp of smoke, something you couldn’t hold or count. How could it be poor?

She glanced at her father. He was a man of few words, a man who found his purpose in the steady, demanding labor of paving and mending the roads that connected their town to the rest of the world. He never boasted, never sought praise for the sweat that beaded on his brow under the hot sun. When he came home, all he ever wanted was a quiet evening with his family, his presence a silent testament to his love and provision. Was that being poor in spirit? A quiet humility that didn't need a crown or a grand title?

Then she thought of her mother. As a nurse practitioner, her mother saw people at their most vulnerable. She held the hands of the elderly as they faced their fears, she calmed anxious new parents, and she treated the broken bodies of those who, like her husband, worked in dangerous jobs. Her mother never spoke of her own accomplishments, of the lives she touched and the comfort she gave. Instead, she would often say, "There but for the grace of God go I." It was a phrase Regan hadn't fully understood until this moment. Her mother, in her constant service and empathy, seemed to carry a spirit that was not full of itself, but rather, open and ready to receive the troubles of others.

Regan looked back at Jesus. His eyes seemed to scan the crowd, to see each person not for what they owned or the titles they held, but for what was in their hearts. The memory of her Little Miss Pocahontas crown, which once felt so important, now seemed like a trinket, a bauble for a girl who didn't understand what true blessing was.

She thought of the way her father’s face would soften when he held a baby lamb on their neighbor's farm, the way her mother would hum a gentle tune while tending to her garden. They weren't flashy people. They didn't have a lot of money, and their work was often hard and went unnoticed by many.

In the simple, profound words of the man on the mountain, Regan Nelson, the little girl with the colorful red hair, began to understand. To be poor in spirit wasn't about having nothing. It was about realizing that all the things the world valued—the crowns, the praise, the important jobs—were not what mattered most to God. It was about a quiet heart, a humble way of walking through the world, a spirit that knew its need for something bigger than itself.

As the sun began to dip lower, casting long shadows across the mountain, Regan leaned her head against her father’s sturdy arm. She didn't have a crown on her head today, but as she listened to the rest of Jesus’ words, she felt a different kind of richness settling in her soul, a blessing that no sash or title could ever bestow.